


it always come back

by tillloveburnusall



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, But that's part of the plot, Dejun dies, Horror, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:42:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27685088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tillloveburnusall/pseuds/tillloveburnusall
Summary: After a long time in the road trying to find his way back home, Xiao Dejun meets his destiny in the form of an old house hidden by trees and its strange owners, Kun and Ten.
Relationships: Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten/Qian Kun, Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten/Qian Kun/Xiao De Jun | Xiao Jun, Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten/Xiao De Jun | Xiao Jun, Qian Kun/Xiao De Jun | Xiao Jun
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5
Collections: NCT Bigbang Round 1





	it always come back

**Author's Note:**

> hello!!
> 
> i have been writing this story for a couple of months now and i must admit, although i'm not entirely satisfied with her it's one of my best works in matter of plot. i'm finishing the last chapter and doing revision so don't worry, they other chapters are much more longer than this one but if everything runs well, before the year ends i'll post the second chapter.
> 
> thanks for the artist that drew the amazing art ("ohh, you'll always be in my heart") and for the mods of the fest!
> 
> mind the tags and good reading!

There‘s no such thing as silence. 

There‘s quietude, I suppose. But I’d claim the bold statement that never before has a living creature experienced the complete lack of sound.

There’s always…  _ Something _ . Blood pumping in your veins is the unpleasant noisy river that keeps you from sleep, screeching, only a pleasant cacophony for those who know how to listen. Particularly, I’m not that fond of the sound. Quietude suits me more intently.

Oh, and loud breathing. Low Breathing. In, out. Sometimes, when you lay your head against your arms, you can hear it all. Try it. It’s chaotic. The rushing blood, the thrumming of breathing against your skin, and of course, the perpetual unsteady beat of your healthy, constant heart. Hmm, permit me to rearrange my previous statement. There‘s no such a thing as silence to the  _ livings. _

…

Xiao Dejun could only be described as someone who didn’t like messy things. 

Be it whatever, messy clothes with so many colors that hurt the eye, messy hair that stick towards each direction of the world, fingernails painted each in a different color, and on a deeper level, messy conversations where one of the ends is always losing the tail of the subject. 

We’ll clear things out in the future. For now, just paint said picture, a man in an old school Dodge drives down a mountainous terrain in order to get home for Christmas. He has red-rimmed eyes, and perfectly straight snow-white hair, the color striking starkly against his dark, broken, gaze. 

Dejun holds the steering wheel like one would hold a hot potato, like each second the thing buzzes under his fingers, closer to a third-degree burn he gets. As if taming a roaring beast, he clenches his teeth and tries to keep his eyes straight on the roads, tightening his grip around the leather object. The mountains swallow Dejun as hungry as ancient ground with few to eat can be. Soon the moreso civil landscape gives space to wild undergrowth and he’s not so sure whether he’s the one giving chasing or being chased. 

He looks at the fragile post-it stuck on the rearview, and looks around, cautiously slowing down. Johnny never said anything about trees, he said hills and a clean meadow that could be hidden by fog. Dejun can only see bugs, and moss, and humidity, and whatever that thing crawling on the rock at his left was.

I know you probably think it’s useless for me to say it, dear reader, but at that very moment, Dejun despised the place with everything he had. 

He didn’t like the idea of cowardice, though. Such a pride and competitive little creature, that one. At each shiver that ran down his spine, more he would speed up, going as deep into the mazy trees as the clean trail permitted. 

I like to think people make choices all the time. Not going to work? Choices. Watching TV instead of finishing a late paper? Choices. Changing the sheets? Choices. Your pull of breath right now?  _ Choices. _

If they’re good or bad, it’s irrelevant. Choices are made all the time, for the most diverse excuses, and in most cases, humans try to bend down the rules in their favor. Few got what they wanted, even fewer were happy with the result. 

When Xiao Dejun left the world burning down behind him, he made a choice. And as any choice, this one also has a consequence. He knew that.

And so did I. 

…

Dejun sleeps in the car for the night, and in the morning, eyes the gas tank with so much concern and fear that it lits up his entire face. It dawns slowly on his features, bringing out something boyish to the perpetual scowl on the sculpted lines of his face, it makes him exquisite beyond words. Fear does this to humans, I noticed. It makes blood rush to all the perfect places, marking them as easy prey, beautiful, but prey, nonetheless. 

I take pity on him, but my hands are tied, fate and choices aren’t something you can interfere with as it conveys you. 

…

My worry proves insignificant. Dejun arrives at his destination. Eye-wide, cheeks flushed, gaze dark and clothes in disarray. He looks…  _ Messy.  _ Funny thing, the irony. 

The gravel surrounding the manor was old, for the lack of a better word (And for that, I apologize, it’s been a long time since I wrote. A very long time, indeed.) Like mostly everything around the place, actually. The air shifted in a weird way, like it had been sleeping for centuries and suddenly the breeze remembered that it should blow there too. It smelled faintly like mud, and the citric that Dejun couldn’t put his finger on.

But as soon as his eyes set in the heart of the terrain, any dispersed thought that could have flown his mind, disappeared in the blink of an eye. 

Before anything else, he noticed the second-floor balcony. It stood high, auspicious, with luxurious french-doors, that not even the never-fading fog could blur the fair glass behind. For a moment, out of nowhere, Dejun wondered how it would be to fall from there. 

And maybe, at the end of this story, dear reader, you may think I enjoyed it. I will make it very clear, I did not.

Dejun walked the gravel trail as if bewitched. Something stronger than reason and weaker than emotions guiding his feet. When he stood in front of the dark, walnut wooden stair that took to the ornate front door, he stopped again. Looking around in robotic movements. 

I don’t like to admit, but it is a stunning construction. It stood in its oppressive gothic style, point arches in sangria and merlot shades that somehow never seemed to shell and large stained windows that had the strangest forms in them and depending on where you were, it looked like they were changing. Standing face to face with the house, it seemed like they were smirking.

Dejun didn’t say anything, and once again, I thought about maybe reaching out, covering him with my presence and hiding any traces that he had ever set foot in this wicked land. I think about it sometimes, if he would have shivered if I had leaned over his shoulder and whispered against his ear,  _ “Run, nothing that comes from this house will chew away the pain inside you. It doesn’t eat feelings, it eats life.” _

In my warped dreams, Dejun listens to me and runs. That’s the thing with dreams, they feel so real that they can fool you into believing that it might happen. Be careful, dear reader. Watch out for soft pillows and don’t follow sheeps to under your bed. 

The real Dejun though, smiles. It’s relief, coming from him in gigantic waves that can swallow rocks but won’t fight tempests. He’s distracted, but I’m not, and above his head, a shadow flashes behind the double french doors. 

If I had a breath, it would hitch. If I was human, I would cry. Instead, I just stand there, three feet away from a boy who doesn’t like messy things and has purple marks hidden under long sleeves. 

Defining the moment the door slides open with not even a creak, I think it’s tragic. A figure appears in the shadow, another one under its feet. 

Dejun doesn’t notice, they never do. 


End file.
